


the hazardous bliss before you know

by minutiae



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy Dolls, Daddy Kink, I shook a witcher and intergenerational trauma fell out, Lambert's the only one around here willing to talk about shit, M/M, No Details, Past Child Death, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Vesemir fucks, canon typical child death discussion, no actual children are harmed in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minutiae/pseuds/minutiae
Summary: Witcher FlashficGeralt brings Jaskier up the mountain, where he makes fast friends with his brothers, and falls into bed with their gruff mentor. He finds himself enjoying his gruff new lover, but one day he finds out that the history of his friend's childhood was darker and sadder than he realized.CW: Canonical child death is discussed, no details given.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Vesemir
Comments: 14
Kudos: 102
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #009





	the hazardous bliss before you know

Jaskier stretched out, still naked and lazy after the previous night. The fire was built high in the room and the furs on the bed were luxurious. He ran his hands through them, gripping and arching his back as he remembered the decadence of the previous night. He was pleasantly sore…. _everywhere._   
  
He really was going to have to thank Geralt for bringing him to Kaer Morhen. It had been a fantastic winter so far, indulging in all of his best fantasies provided by the gruffiest Daddy he’d ever had the pleasure of enjoying. And oh, the _pleasure_. He was still leaking as he dressed, debating on the effort of cleaning himself versus the way Vesemir’s pupils would dilate smelling himself later. 

The first time he’d stumbled out from the oldest witcher’s rooms in search of breakfast, he’d run into the man in the hallway. Vesemir had been carrying a tray back to their room, shirtless and barefoot despite the chill that spread through the keep in early winter. Jaskier had bundled himself up, as most of his clothing had been left behind in the library the previous night. So there he had stood in his blanket, rumpled and nude with cum still leaking down his thighs, knees weak and stomach empty.   
  
Vesemir’s eyes had been nearly eclipsed with black when he saw the bard in the hallway, and when his nose flared Vesemir had growled, low and deep. He had then simply shifted the tray into one hand, lifted Jaskier over his shoulder and carried him directly back to the bedroom. It was decided that morning that his very favorite piece of furniture in Vesemir’s room was actually the door to his room, as Vesemir had held him up against it with one hand gripping his ass, digging a hand shaped bruise into the meat that Jaskier treasured for a week. The witcher had fucked him deep and hard against that door, his other hand gripping the bard’s hair at the base of his skull, pulling just firmly enough to make his back arch off the door as he begged for more. 

They did not emerge again until dinnertime that day, to which Lambert waggled his eyebrows before offering to heat a bath for him after dinner.   
  
Vesemir growled, but Lambert rolled his eyes.   
  
“Give the bard’s ass a break, old man. You’ll just end up fucking him in the tub and frankly, I could use a soak too.”   
  
The tension was palpable at the table as they growled at each other before Eskel threw a roll at Lambert’s face.   
  
“You can offer to do something nice without being an asshole, Lambert.”   
  
“No I can’t. Have you met me? I’m a motherfucker.”   
  
Since that day, Lambert and Jaskier had taken to soaking in the baths every few days, bitching and laughing. The prickly witcher had become the person he talked to the most this winter, often curling up together by the fire to keep warm. Lambert taught him Gwent and helped him practice with an old set of cards, gleefully telling stories of Eskel and Geralt from the particularly unflattering perspective of a younger brother. Eskel had been greatly delighted in Jaskier’s knowledge and love of poetry and literature, and on the warmest days they would go up to the most stable tower to have picnics. They would look out of the hole blasted into the side to admire the view of the valley below and discuss whatever book Jaskier had unearthed from the library recently. Geralt was the quietest, enjoying the company of his brothers, and the mindlessness of caring for the keep’s animal population. Eskel may have declared one of the goats as a pet, but it was Geralt who cared for them all winter, finding solace in their quiet lack of judgement. He didn’t see as much of his old friend as he thought he would have, but the new friendships he was building with his brothers kept him well socialized and happy.   
  
This may have led to Jaskier’s current situation, tumbling into the bed of his best friend’s mentor. It was an easy arrangement, both old enough to enjoy company without the expectation or assumption of more. They didn’t have the heartfelt talks he had with Lambert. They didn’t have the esoteric discourse he loved with Eskel. There wasn’t even the quiet bond of friendship he had with Geralt. The older man was attentive in bed, clever fingered and had clearly spent his hundreds of years honing his skills and techniques. But previous lovers were never discussed, and while Jaskier hoped to return again next winter, returning to this bed was not assumed nor discussed. They didn’t share a bed every night, but the nights they did, Vesemir would always ask first if he was certain. 

Jaskier hadn’t meant to call him Daddy, but it fell out of his lips like so many mumbled and gasped pleas one night as Vesemir had him on his knees, face down on the bed. The roll of his hips drove him down into the furs, the sensation surrounding and overwhelming him. The reaction to that word had been immediate and _extremely_ positive. The witcher had dragged the bard up, one hand around his waist, and the other around his throat. He’d smoothly rolled, laying back against the pillows, grabbing the bard’s thighs under the knees for balance and spread him wide above him, growling soft praise into Jaskier’s side as he flexed the incredible strength in his arms, bouncing the bard on his cock. Jaskier had never had a partner that could lift his not insubstantial weight so _easily_ , and he scrambled with his hands, one hand fisted in the bed furs and the other arm wrapped around Vesemir’s neck, his hand gripping the witcher’s shoulder as all he could do was hang on. The memory alone made his dick twitch in interest. 

But now the sun was high and the keep was quiet, so Jaskier finally rolled out of the bed, doing his best to clean up the mess left by his current fling. Vesemir had told him that Geralt and Eskel had left on a hunting expedition, and he was going out early to check the ice on the lake. Lambert was tasked with breakfast, since Jaskier’s disastrous attempt at using the unfamiliar kitchen had filled the hall with smoke for two days.  
  
So he dressed, pulling on the loose, warm clothing that Geralt had insisted he buy before heading up the mountains. Once again, his old friend had the best of ideas. He left Vesemir’s room, in a hallway that was far enough to be out of earshot of the main living space. The instructor’s rooms were grouped here originally to avoid over hearing too much of their charges’ after hours shenanigans. It served him well now that the boys didn’t hear too much of his own activities. Especially when he edged the bard for hours making him wail and curse, exhausted and shuddering, before finally allowing him an orgasm that washed over him so thoroughly he would black out. Jaskier had learned quite a few things about himself these sessions. He never realized that he was noisy and talkative in bed, but only up until the second orgasm of the night. By the time he was coming dry, all he could manage was babbled pleas and a keening moan that Lambert had informed him echoed down the halls. Lambert had a wicked grin relaying _that_ information but Jaskier did his very best to drown himself in the bath instead of looking him in the eye.

*********************************

  
Jaskier stood in the doorway, knowing that to the left was the pathway down to the kitchens, but he’d never been to the right. When he first asked Geralt about the keep, he’d been warned about the structural damage from the sacking. Eskel had warned him in detail about certain areas, and Jaskier had waved away the explanations once the words ‘poisonous gas’ were uttered. He would not be writing ballads of this place, the only peace and safety his oldest friend had left. He knew enough to not go underground, or any of the unused towers or the outer ring without company. Lambert had taken to simply placing a broken chair or table to block off passageways Jaskier should not go down. It was a simple system, but effective, and Lambert groused about it being _only logical_ in this hellscape labyrinth. But to the right of Vesemir’s door was a wide, clean, well maintained hallway.   
  
So he walked, quiet and serene down the long hall, opening doors to see empty rooms filled only with dust and memories. It’d been years since the sacking, and they had clearly done their best to clear the worst of the reminders. He paused when he opened the first door around the corner from the instructor’s rooms that turned out to be a closet filled with mouldering linens with a basket filled with folded cloth diapers ready to use near the door. 

He closed it again slowly, the puff of dust settling on him, the soft shift of stirring old ghosts in a home that wasn’t his own. He pressed a hand to the door before moving on. The next room had no door. It was a nursery with empty cribs and it was across from a room lined with small beds, most of them shoved together in small groups. Between them both at the end of the hallway was a strange set of small double doors. Jaskier opened one, and the other swung open with it. Another swirl of dust billowed up, coating him in the dust of memories and murder.   
  
Inside the closet were two rows of hanging dolls. There were dolls with animal heads, smiling human like heads painted with golden witcher eyes. There were traditional style folklore heads of vegetables and even one mildly terrifying one that looked like a carved fae head. Along the top of these small hanging displays were piles of cork and spools of thread, one unpainted cat like head sneered at him upside down, half attached to an unfinished doll.   
  
He shuddered before reaching out and picking up one of the dolls. The tattered shirt on it did little to hide the small teeth marks of the last child who owned it, and he ran his finger along it before hanging it back up and picking up another. This one had a small black wolf head, teeth painted on its stylized little muzzle.   
  
“That one was mine.”   
  
Jaskier squawked at the words spoken softly by Lambert, fumbling the doll before pressing a hand to his racing heart. Lambert just smiled, that tiny, soft smile that only moved the corner of his mouth but made his eyes shine and the corners of his eyes crinkle if you knew to look.   
  
“Well I suppose I should say, I was the last owner of that one.”   
  
“Lambert, you utter ass. I’m here looking at creepy dolls and you sneak up on me. What do you mean, you were the last owner?”   
  
“Come on, Jaskier. You know how little witchers are made. Idiots like my brothers call the Law of Surprise, and bring home children. Sometimes babies. New little ones would be given or get to pick a doll from the cupboard.”   
  
“Lambert, you said _last owner.”_ _  
_ _  
_ Lambert looked at him long and hard, before replacing the doll and closing the cabinet.   
  
“This is a keep full of ghosts, Jaskier. You know this. They did their best to keep us alive until the Trials, but some kids died even before the mages got a chance to murder them.”   
  
Jaskier blanched, glancing back over his shoulder. There hadn’t been many dolls for a school of witchers that had been operating for hundreds of years. Lambert was frowning when he stopped Jaskier before they turned the corner.   
  
“Don’t ask Vesemir to explain it, Jaskier. You won’t like what he has to say about it. You still have two months before winter’s over. Put it out of your mind, okay?”   
  
He could not put it out of his mind. He also was not in the mood to be fucked senseless when his mind was full of images of tiny, scared children with old, chewed toys to keep them company.   
  
Vesemir tolerated his quiet contemplation two weeks before he joined him on a small balcony, overlooking a courtyard where Eskel and Lambert were shoveling snow.   
  
“Something has upset you.”   
  
Jaskier hummed, contemplating his answer. “I found the nursery.”   
  
“It wasn’t hidden, and it wasn’t far. Is the existence of it the issue, or was it something Lambert said about it?”   
  
“A little bit of both. He told me to talk to you about it.”   
  
“No he didn’t.”   
  
“Fair, fair. He told me _not_ to talk to you about it. Vesemir, there were only 12 dolls, one of which Lambert said was his own.”   
  
“Geralt’s and Eskel’s are both in there too. The one I had as a babe is there as well.” Jaskier inhaled so sharply at this that he made himself cough, clinging to the wall as Vesemir watched with one placid eyebrow raised. “Surely children’s toys aren’t what has made you uncomfortable.”   
  
“Vesemir the _doll you used?_ Geralt said you are nearing 350, how is the _doll you used_ there?”   
  
“Jaskier, think about this. We were training hunters and fighters, not coddling noble born babes. The mages spelled the dolls, a few of those dolls are even older than I am. They were given to a child like we’d give them a training sword. A tool to help the child thrive and survive the best we could. But children die, and we did not have the time, resources, or space to fuss over every single individual. Tools are reused and passed down, the same as the clothing and training materials and yes, even the children’s dolls.”   
  
“Who had Lambert’s doll before him?”   
  
Vesemir shrugged. “All the instructors helped care for the children when necessary, Jaskier. We couldn’t afford to get attached to them, there were so many young ones that needed care and growing ones that needed training. It took everything from all of us to keep the ones going through the Trials alive. Older ones needed mentorship, and those too damaged by the Path to continue needed care. I am old and was old when the nursery was full of babes, and it was too often that they would pass before they ever made it to be trained by me. We cared for them all the best we could, but hundreds of years of loss? You have to shut it out.”   
  
Jaskier was shaking. His parents had always been distant, a little cool, never truly invested in his dreams or desires. He wrote them now and again to assure of his continued existence, but he was raised by nannies and tutors, as many noble children were. Even though his carers had been paid, there was still unconditional love and care in his life. The man whose bed he’d spent most of the winter in had never been what he would call affectionate, but he’d attributed that to the nature of a winter fling. This hadn’t been the start of any relationship, and yet he was now very sure he drastically misunderstood the man before him.   
  
He turned on Vesemir, eyes narrowed. “Tell me you would do it differently, going back, Ves. They were not chattel to be tolerated with the minimum care. No wonder I have fought a losing battle for _years_ with these men that they are allowed fine things, new things. That care is not earned, or given only when absolutely necessary. Tell me you would change it if you could.”   
  
“We did what we thought best, and what we did resulted in the last three boys I have to care for. If they were softer, could they survive every year the world hates us more? If we were gentler, would they have continued on after our entire family was slaughtered? Bard, you have only seen childhood from one side of the coin. Listen to their stories this winter, and keep your rage leashed. It wasn’t perfect but it raised me, it raised them, and for good or ill it’s over. And no matter what your final judgment, rest in the knowledge it’ll never raise another.”   
  
  



End file.
